


Quintessence

by li_chu



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Alex can't help but fall in love, Boy x boy, Future Angst, Future Character Death, I'm sorry in advance guys I really am, In which an irishman and an italian find love in a catch 22 situation, M/M, Peter has lung cancer, Positano, Waterford, a bit of swearing but hey you guys can handle it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 07:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10894671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/li_chu/pseuds/li_chu
Summary: The tugging currents of Waterford’s beaches were Peter’s childhood, but the coast of Positano warmed his being in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. The sun was blindingly bright, even for summer he notes. Peter was thankful for the prescription sunglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose, even if they weren’t the cheapest to acquire. As the cruise-ship he and his family had traveled on docked at the shore, Peter was glad that he could spend his remaining time in this quintessence city of perfection.





	Quintessence

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So this is my first time posting on here, and sadly, this isn't a fanfiction. I hope you guys enjoy! 
> 
> “I am the wisest man alive,  
> For I know one thing,  
> And that is that I know nothing”  
> -Socrates

The sea spray breezes over his skin, cooling the slightest hint of an oncoming fever as his eyes searched the waves for nothing in particular. The tugging currents of Waterford’s beaches were Peter’s childhood, but the coast of Positano warmed his being in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. The sun was blindingly bright, even for summer he notes. Peter was thankful for the prescription sunglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose, even if they weren’t the cheapest to acquire. As the cruise-ship he and his family had travelled on docked at the shore, Peter was glad that he could spend his remaining time in this quintessence city of perfection.

“Pete, what’s the time dear?” His Ma tore him from his thoughts, salt and pepper hair looking like a halo in the European sunlight. She looked happy, and Peter couldn’t help but return a small grin,

“12:25, Ma. We should head to the hotel and check in.” He looks up from his watch, turning to his Da. “After that, I hear there’s a restaurant on the beach, _Le Tre Sorelle_. It’s rumoured to have top quality wine”. He turns to his Da, whose smile crinkles at the corners of his moss green eyes. A knowing grin slides across Peter’s features, and he coughs a bit as the older man slaps him across the back.

“Atta boy Pete! You know how to keep an old man happy” Peter is still coughing, and he tries to discreetly wipe the blood away from his palm. His Da notices, eyes softening in apology.

“Sorry lad… gotta remember to take it easy on you” Peter’s jaw tightens as he swallows down thickly the metallic taste of his own blood. He wasn’t about to let his bad-timed illnesses get in the way of their trip. He wanted this. Wanted a last hoorah before his time was up. So he strolls on, gesturing for his Ma and Da to follow.

His Ma is too used to his reserved expression, and Peter is thankful when she pipes up to change the subject, “What’s the name of the hotel, _mo stoirín_?” It takes him a second, but he replies cheerier than before.

“It’s called _La Sirenuse_ , apparently, the hotel has stayed within the same family since its inception. From what I gathered on blogs, it’s breathtaking.” As they walked, Peter noticed there was so much to love about Italy. It wasn’t just the aesthetic of the place, though he must confess the vibrant coloured buildings and plants drew him in first and foremost. But now, immersed in the busy street of Positano, Peter was soaking in the atmosphere like a sponge. He craved to understand the shouts of rapid Italian, to mingle in with the locals and just feel _free_ for once.

He had finally gleaned the difference between living and being alive.

* * *

 

They entered the hotel lobby at 12:55. Peter's hand lingered on the door handle momentarily, hesitant for a reason unknown to himself.

 _‘This is it.’_ He thinks. _‘No time like the present’._

He pushes open the door. The feeling of euphoric joy doesn’t fill him. There’s no breath being winded from his already complaining lungs. The inside of _La Sirenuse_ is stunning, and the plants that hang from the ceiling are nothing short of beautiful, but not the type of stunning or unworldly beauty that Peter was searching for. Not enough of whatever it is his heart craved to quench its thirst. But still he nodded at the receptionist good naturedly, it was the least he could do.

“Hello, we booked two Hotel rooms here over a year ago? I believe the reservations should be under Mr. Abbey.” He pulls off his sunglasses, flashing the woman at the front desk a charming smile that failed to reach his eyes.

The woman, whom Peter guessed was named Isabelle from the tag on her blouse, flushed a bright pink that contrasted with her tanned skin. He internally reveled in his abilities to charm the girl, but still wished that _she_ could’ve been a _he._ Peter tells his homosexual monologue to back down and be polite.

“Er. Sì, Rooms B3 and B4?” She looks at him expectantly, and it feels like her blue eyes are piercing into his soul. Peter can’t help but turn away from Isabelle’s intense gaze, looking at his Ma instead.

“Yes, that’s it. Thank you.”

She reaches over the counter, two room keys pressed between her fingers. Peter grabs them with a small smile, and pretends not to notice the way Isabelle blushes harder as their hands brush.

* * *

 

Peter hands a key to his parents, and tells them he’s just going to look around his room before they head out. He presses the key into the lock, and the door swings open with a creak of approval. The inside of his room isn’t like the hotels back in Waterford, no, Ireland's accommodation is all deep greens and browns and cheap mahogany.

This room, though, is nothing short of an oxford definition for _class._ It’s mostly white, or varying shades of creme, but the large fern immediately draws Peter in. He’s always had a love for plants, and he remembers fondly the time he got his first cacti when he was 12. He had to leave his bonsai collection in the hands of his best friend Rory back in Waterford, seeing as customs definitely wouldn’t let him board a plane with that many tiny trees (but knowing her lackluster watering skills, they’d be dead in less than a week.).

The billowing grey curtains lured him out onto the balcony, which overlooked a swimming pool, and a cliff-side adorned with brightly coloured buildings.

“Paradise.” Peter murmured under his breath, pulling out his phone to snap a picture of the scenery.

If he had to choose a place to die, this was definitely high on his list.

After sitting out on the balcony for a few more minutes, Peter decides to head in and get ready. He changes his shirt in favour for something warmer; a simple black sweatshirt. Though it was summer, the rolling breeze off the ocean sent shivers down his spine, nipping at the skin like it would back home in Waterford.

He opens the hotel door to his parents, who are both wearing matching smiles. It makes his heart ache to see them like this, at their best. Moments like these, Peter forgets to accept his catch 22 health, wants to run into his Ma’s arms like when he was a kid, and wait for her to stroke his hair and tell him it’s not always going to be this hard.  

But he can’t, because he’s 25 now, and he has to accept the inevitable.

He has to be strong.

“You ready lad? I’m absolutely starvin’!” His Da laughs, “Lead the way my boy!”

Peter’s lip turn up in a smile, walking down the hall with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

* * *

 

They arrive at _Le Tre Sorelle_ at 1:20, and by then the beach-side restaurant is buzzing with life; tourist and local, judging by the mix of both Italian and American accents Peter could hear.

The first thing he notices is the flowers, of course. Trust a botanist to only care about the plants in one of the most beautiful  places in Italy. But they’re stunning, he thinks. Deep shades of purple tinted petals hang over the lip of a balcony, vines falling down across the white marble pillars gracefully. Peter knows better than to reach and pick one, but his fingers twitch to find his camera in his back pocket.

“Just a sec Da, let me take a photo” He stops the older man from walking into the entrance of the restaurant, and hears him barely muffle a groan. He snaps a picture, and pockets the phone so they can walk inside.

“Dear lord, do you smell that Alice? That is the stuff of dreams...” his Da closes his eyes blissfully, inhaling the scent of food through his nose.

“Yes Robert, I’ve never heard you talk about my cooking like that.” She glares playfully, before pulling out a chair and seating herself at the table nearest to the view of the ocean.

Peter sees a man with dark hair tied in a small bun whiz past them, a tray of what he could only assume to be cocktails carried in one hand. His stare lingers a little too long, but before he can react in anyway, the waiter is off serving someone else further away. He tears his gaze down towards his menu, willing himself to not look up unless extremely necessary.

 

“What can I get for you tonight?” Suddenly a voice speaks up from nowhere, and Peter barely stops the small _‘shit’_ he mumbles under his breath, who in their right mind sneaks up on someone and-

Oh.

It’s the man from before. Except it’s not. Because he is ten thousand times more gorgeous up close. He’s vaguely aware of Ma and Da starting to order their late lunches, but Peter is way too occupied watching the man’s tan wrists flick around as he jots down orders. There’s the faintest hint of stubble adorning his chin, and now his eyes are trained on the tip of the waiters tongue, which darts out to lick at his lip.

Suddenly wearing a sweatshirt seems like the most foolish decision Peter has ever made in his short life span.

 

“And what can I get for you sir?”  The man is now looking at him. He looks back. He can’t look away. He is currently hurling every insult and curse he can think of at himself because goddammit, compose yourself.

Peter _almost_ says something inappropriate, before reply civilly;

“I’ll take the _Misto Bruschetta_ and the _Calamarata_ , please.”

And then the waiter winks. He winks and Peter has to choke down a swarm of butterflies and pray that the cute Italian man doesn’t see his bright flush, “Good choice sir, I’ll return when your food is prepared!”

He adds another reason to the list of why he loves Italy.

* * *

 

The waiter comes back 25 minutes later, and Peter counts these minutes precisely on his watch. He doesn’t listen to the dishes the man names as he’s putting them on the salmon coloured tablecloth. He settles for watching his lips form the words around the faintest European accent.

“And for you, sir, the _Misto Bruschette_ and the _Calamarata_.” The waiter smiles, and it’s the best thing Peter has seen in a very long time. It’s so bright and full of sincerity, and the tiny dimples that appear at the creases of the man’s mouth make his heart do insane things within the confinements of his chest.

If he were to die tomorrow, and this was the last thing he saw. He would accept death, greet him like you would an old friend. Let him sing a sweet lullaby till Peter fell asleep.

But Peter didn’t want to die, no. He wanted to learn the inner workings of the man that was before him. Study his intricate details until his every line and movement was committed to memory.

“Thank you, er…” He trailed off, hoping the man would fill the gap.

“Alex, and no problem. Enjoy your meal. Call me over if you need anything” He mocked an army salute, and walked off, taking Peter’s heart with him.

_Alex._

Peter found himself smiling uncontrollably, and he wasn’t sure why.

...

Peter finishes his meal (which was admittedly delicious). But instead of stopping there, he orders glass after glass of wine, not even to share with his Ma and Da. He doesn’t particularly _like_ wine, but he _does_ like Alex. And so he continues to pay for each drink, getting slightly tipsier each time he downs a glass and drinks in the expression on the waiter's face.

At some point Alex laughs at his semi slurred words, places a hand on Peter’s shoulder and tells him, “You’re quite the charmer sir”.

“Please, call me Peter” And somehow his drunken mind has the audacity to _wink_.

But Alex doesn’t look offended, or disgusted, or anything other than what Peter would call _Euphoric_.

The next glass of wine Peter receives is in fact not what he has been ordering (House _Merlot_ ), but instead water. Peter goes to accuse Alex of hinting at him being an alcoholic, but looks up to find the boy has disappeared into thin air.

He lifts the glass to his lips, chugging down half of it before placing it back down. He notices now a small bit of card near his elbow, and picks it up. Peter squints, trying to read the fine cursive print.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I can’t read Italian” He rubs his eyes from under his glasses, drunk and frustrated.

His Ma looks over, her face breaking into a grin. She flips the bit of card upside-down. Or, right-side-up it seems, “I think that’s a phone number, dearie.”

* * *

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Le Tre Sorelle ~ (Italian) The Three Sisters  
> Mo Stoirín ~ (Irish) My Little Darling  
> Sì ~ (Italian) Yes  
> Misto Bruschette ~ an Italian homemade bread topped with Tomato, Gorgonzola, Mozzarella and Sundried Tomato  
> Calamarata ~ Pasta with Squid, fresh Tomatoes and Basil
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter kiddos!


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